


Care In Kind

by SushiOwl



Series: Tumblr Commissions [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Bathing/Washing, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Nesting, Omega Stiles Stilinski, POV Peter Hale, Relationship Discussions, Sleepy Cuddles, being assholes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SushiOwl/pseuds/SushiOwl
Summary: Peter isn't going to let Stiles go without a fight.
Stiles isn't going to let Peter fight everyone without taking responsibility.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mtvd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtvd/gifts).



> Commission for angry, protective Peter from madtownvoodoo.
> 
> It was supposed to be 3000 words, but apparently I don't have a single ounce of restraint in my body.

Peter couldn’t feel him, couldn’t feel him at all. He and Stiles may not have been bonded mates yet, but being around him had given him a sense of the omega that he quite liked. It allowed him to sneak up Stiles in the supermarket and “bump into him” at the mall. Stiles knew, always rolled his eyes and swatted his arm before moving in close so they could share a kiss.

But now Peter was afraid that Stiles was dead as he rampaged through the fey mound like a dog that hadn’t eaten in days. The sidhe were immortal in some respects, but they did scar--at least for a few decades--so Peter was going for the face every time one of the assholes popped up and tried to stop him.

“Where is the human?!” Peter demanded, holding an Unseelie soldier against the ground as he screamed, holding half of his face as it tried to slide from his skull like wet meat. “Tell me or I’ll make you match!” He lifted his clawed hand where it was dripping with dark golden fairy blood.

Apparently the soldier didn’t want to look like Ghost Rider, so he hurriedly blurted out some directions. Peter took off that direction, and when he turned the corner down a corridor, he could finally smell Stiles. It was faint and soured with terror, but it was him.

He came across a door, wooden and probably just as the rest of the mound, but it had no handle. There was probably a special way to get in, and incantation or hand movement, but Peter didn’t have time for that. He just drew his elbows back and torpedoed his clawed fingers into the wood, getting a good grip so after a couple tugs he could rip the door away from the wall.

There was Stiles, bound against the wall by thick roots with his hands tied and his neck collared. He had his head leaned against a root, eyes half opened and dull, unseeing. He had gashes along his chest, crisscrossing wounds that oozed. But he was alive. Peter could hear his sluggish heartbeat and raspy breathing as he walked over and started to tear his binds apart. 

The roots shivered, shrinking away after a few slashes and letting Stiles fall into Peter’s arms. Peter turned and laid him down gently, sawing at the ropes around Stiles’s wrists with his claws. Then he went for the collar, which was plain and black leather before he touched it, then it shocked him hard while glowing with purple runes.

Stiles let out a soft, hurt noise.

Peter looked at his singed fingertips then back at the collar as it faded to black. He touched Stiles’s greasy, dirty hair. “Stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmured, before he took a deep breath, swallowed and grabbed onto the collar again.

He had to admit that it was probably the most painful thing he had ever done. The magic electrified his cells, boiled his blood and split his skin up to his elbows. He was left leaking both blood and plasma, but he threw the tattered remains of the collar away, shaking a little with the pain.

But that didn’t matter, because Stiles was blinking slowly, light coming back to his eyes. He focused probably the best he could. “Pe...ter…” His voice sounded wrecked, like he had been screaming endlessly for the whole thirty-three hours he had been missing. His hand twitched toward Peter’s leg, before he just passed out.

Peter sucked in air, knowing he had to get Stiles out of the fey mound to complete break whatever enchantments had been laid on him. He looked at his shirt, soaked in fairy blood, and at his arms, trickling his own blood. There was no way not to be gross about this, and he hoped Stiles wouldn’t mind as he scooped him up, cradling him and hurrying out of the mound.

When he emerged, the sheriff was there, and he gave Stiles a hurried glance over before looking to Peter. “Take him to your house. I’ll call Melissa.” Peter nodded a bit rapidly, his heart pounding in his ears, and he went to turn but the sheriff caught his shoulder. “Take care of him,” he said, and Peter opened his mouth to say of course he would, but then the sheriff added, “And yourself.” He gave a flick of a gesture at the flame-red and swollen wounds on Peter’s arms.

Peter trembled with the pain and shook his head. “I’m fine. Thank you, John. I’ll let you know when he wakes up.” At the man’s nod, he turned and headed down the dirt and gravel road to his shiny black Escalade. He couldn’t bring himself to care that he was about to destroy the interior. There was probably at least one curly fry under the front passenger seat, so it was a lost cause anyway.

“You scared me, baby,” he murmured to Stiles as he carefully laid him in the back seat, hoping that the position with his freakishly long spider legs folded up wasn’t too uncomfortable. He went to touch his face, but his hand was almost brown with drying blood and dirt, so he refrained and stepped back to close the door.

When he got to the house, the blood along his arms was dried, and his shirt felt like cement against his skin. Melissa’s car was there, and she was standing behind it, looking anxious as he pulled into the drive next to her. 

She met him when he got out, and she took one look at his arms and her mouth set in a line. “How is he?” she asked, watching him as he opened the back door.

“Better than he could be,” Peter said, pulling the limp omega from his backseat and holding him in his arms. 

Melissa nodded wordlessly toward the house, taking his keys. When they got inside and Stiles was on the couch, she started to wipe away the grime and blood from his chest to get a good look at his wounds.

“I don’t think he’ll need stitches,” she remarked as she cleaned a gash. “I’m going to dress these.” She looked up at Peter and frowned a little. “You look terrifying. Go take a shower and clean your arms. Get rid of that--” She waggled a finger at his ruined shirt. “--bury it, maybe. When you get back I’ll dress your arms too.”

“I’m fine,” Peter said, a lot of tiredness in his voice.

She cocked her head at him and put on her mom voice. “What do you think Stiles would prefer to see first thing he wakes up? You with clean bandages or you looking you went three rounds with a garbage disposal?”

Peter wanted to argue mostly to be petulant, but he was too exhausted after staying awake the whole time Stiles was gone and too relieved he was going to be okay. He wanted to fall down and sleep. A shower would be a nice compromise. “I’ll be right back,” he said, sending one last look to Stiles before he hurried upstairs.

He washed his arms with antibacterial soap, hissing the whole time. Melissa’s comparison was apt. It did look like he’d gotten into a fight with spinning blades. He decided to forgo a shirt, feeling oversensitive, but pulled on a pair of sleep pants for Melissa’s sake.

When he got downstairs again, Stiles’s chest was all bandaged up and Melissa was petting his cheek gently. She looked over when he came into the room. “He woke up for a second, looked around and went right back out again,” she told him. “He’ll probably come to again soon.” She stood and quickly wrapped Peter’s arms so he didn’t look such a fright.

“Thank you, Melissa,” Peter said as she gathered her things, gazing down at Stiles still. He ran his fingers along the white wraps on his forearm.

“Make him eat something in a bit,” Melissa said, before she held a bottle out to Peter. He looked at it and then at her. “Meloxicam. It’s basically just super Advil. He’s going to be sore.” She frowned as he continued to stare. “Doing your wolfy pain taking for too long is dangerous, right? Use this for the times you need a break.”

Wondering when Melissa gained the ability to see right through people, Peter nodded and took the pills. He saw her out then went back to sit on the floor by the couch, watching Stiles and trying not to think of What Ifs.

He had his face pressed against the couch cushion, eyes closed, when he heard Stiles moan a little. He popped up and looked at the restless human, watching him shift before he opened his amber eyes and focused on Peter’s face.

“Ow,” he murmured, lifting his head like he was going to sit up. Peter turned to help, but Stiles abandoned the motion and went flat again, blinking slowly. “Well,” he said, his voice still a stripped mess. “That sucked.”

“Looks like it did,” Peter said, reaching over and touching Stiles’s hair.

Stiles made a face. “I don’t even have to look in the mirror to know I am nasty right now,” he said, turning his head away a bit. “They kept… rubbing this stuff all over me. Smelled like fertilizer.” He sighed. “Bet I’m ruining your couch right now.”

“The couch can be replaced,” Peter told him, and Stiles snorted. “Do you want a bath?”

“Can’t move.”

“I’m offering to help, dimwit,” Peter said, smiling a little.

“What? You gonna sponge bathe me?” Stiles asked, rolling his eyes.

“Something like that.”

Stiles blinked, before he gave a little shrug.

Peter picked him up without another word, toting him upstairs and through his bedroom to the master bathroom. He had Stiles propped against the wall a minute so he could get his pants and underwear off, before he set him in the tub, leaning against the side.

Stiles let his head droop backward, completely pliant. 

Peter turned on the water at partial strength and didn’t pull up the plug, instead just letting it run out the drain. Then he grabbed the spongey loofah and wet it through. He wasn’t going to bother with soap just yet. He just wanted to get the grime off of Stiles’s skin so he didn’t feel as gross.

He started with Stiles’s arm, dragging the sponge along his shoulder and underarm, into the crease of his inner arm and over the bundled skin of his elbow scar. He’d gotten that scar being stupid on a bike when he was eleven, falling and dragging his arm along the street.

He washed Stiles’s fingers and under each of his short, bitten nails. Then he lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles gently, one by one. He looked over and found Stiles staring at him with concern. “What is it?” 

“Your arms,” Stiles said, brows furrowing. “What happened?”

Peter glanced at his bandages on his arms. They didn’t hurt anymore, and in an hour or so he would take them off and be just as perfect as before. So he shrugged and lowered Stiles’s arm to pick up the other one and give it the same treatment. “I got a little overzealous in saving you.” He looked at Stiles, whose brow was pinched together. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t regret a single moment. 

When Stiles didn’t say anything, Peter finished up his arm, his legs, then gently maneuvered him so he could get his mud caked hair under the tap. He was pretty sure Stiles fell asleep for a minute as Peter combed through his hair, the water turning brown through the worst of it. He gave Stiles’s hair a quick lather and rinse, before he shut off the water.

Getting a sleepy, limp as a rag doll Stiles out of the tub and on his feet to be dried was mostly impossible, so Peter let him slump against his chest as he ran the towel over his back and limbs. He gave Stiles’s hair a cursory blow dry so it didn’t get cold and he didn’t get sick, and left it all puffed out and wild as he pulled Stiles into his arms and carried him into the bedroom.

He laid Stiles down and quickly came to the realization that just his normal two pillows was not enough, so he went to pull his extra pillows out of the closet. By the time he was finished, Stiles was practically encased in pillows that were piled up around him. It was how Stiles liked to be at the tail end of his heats, so Peter figured it would work.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, taking Stiles’s hand and sighing as his powers kicked in and his veins turned black. Stiles let out a little whimper, nuzzling into one of the pillows, and Peter figured that was a good thing. While he was sapping Stiles’s pain, he scrolled through his phone’s contact and called the sheriff, putting it to his ear.

“Is he awake?” John asked after their standard greetings.

“He was for a little bit, after Melissa left,” Peter said, watching Stiles’s passive face. “I got him clean. He’s in bed now. I’m going to let him rest for a little while then feed him.” 

John heaved a relieved sigh over the line. “Good. Good, I’m glad. Damn kid, got me all worried.”

“You and me both,” Peter said, shoulders sagging a little. His arm was starting to burn, but he could go for a little longer. 

“You did good, Peter,” John said, and Peter let his eyes fall shut. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

After hanging up, Peter turned and curled up around Stiles, mindful of his chest. He drained away his pain until his arm shook uncontrollably and he couldn’t feel his fingers. Then he waited five or so minutes and did it all over again. He wasn’t sure how long this went on, just focusing on Stiles’s breathing and scent, when the chime of the doorbell startled him. He opened his eyes and looked at Stiles, finding him sleeping peacefully and drooling a bit.

Peter slowly extracted himself from the bed, tucking Stiles in. As he got closer to the door, his nostrils flared and he narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t smell anything. If someone was playing Ding-Dong-Ditch, they were going down. But when he opened the door, he wished there was anyone else or no one standing at the door.

“Deaton,” he said, and he didn’t bother even pretending to be happy to see him.

“Peter,” Deaton said with that empty smile of his. “How is Stiles?”

“He’s fine,” Peter said, already counting to ten in his head like Stiles kept telling him to do. It kind of helped check his murderous rage.

“Can I see him?” Deaton asked, making like he was heading inside, but Peter frowned and got right in his path, coming out of the house and shutting the door behind him. “Ah,” Deaton said as Peter crossed his arms. “I see.”

“You sure about that?” Peter asked, tapping his bicep. “I think there’s a lot you claim to see, but so much more that you’re completely blind to.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or that you totally ignore.”

Apparently Deaton was not expecting to have this sort of conversation, because he looked a little thrown for a moment. Then his features went placid. “Peter, I am aware that--”

“Really?” Peter interrupted, because he was apparently in that mood. “You’re aware? Aware of what exactly? You’re aware that you sent Stiles into a situation woefully underprepared and almost got him killed?” He bared his teeth. “Again?”

Deaton realized it was either time to backpedal or save face, and he chose the latter. “Stiles is special--”

“You don’t think I know Stiles is special?!” Peter barked, because he was absolutely not having it. “I see it every goddamn moment. I see his quirks, his sarcasm, his intelligence and his power. But what I see and you _don’t_ is that he’s a fucking human!” He took a step toward Deaton, and Deaton hesitated a moment before taking a step back. “He’s breakable. He doesn’t heal like a wolf. He is vulnerable.”

“But he is very brave--”

“Brave? Yeah. He’s brave, but not because he’s confident in himself. He is scared that if he fails, he’ll get left behind.” When Deaton opened his mouth to say something, Peter lashed out with a clawed hand and grabbed his shirt, jerking him close as his teeth descended. “He doesn’t want to be seen as useless, and you take advantage! All he wants is to please you so you’ll make him stronger, and you string him along and send him off like cannon fodder and only reward him after the rest of us have picked up the pieces.” 

Peter could feel his face changing, the way his canines crowded his mouth, and it made him slur a bit, but he was beyond giving a shit. “You are going to think twice next time you get a stupid ass notion to send Stiles off half-cocked and almost defenseless. You say a lot about his latent power and about how he can do great things, but I’m starting to think that if you help him unlock them, you won’t be useful to us anymore because we’ll figure out that Stiles is a better emissary _than you will ever be!_ ”

Pushing Deaton away, Peter called back his wolf, knowing that if he let it out for much longer he would probably maul Deaton within an inch of his life. “Try this again, and I will rip your arms off and beat you to death with them,” he said, knowing that was the most ridiculous threat he’d ever let come out of his mouth, but he was too angry to be smooth. “You hear me, vet?”

Deaton smoothed down the front of his shirt, nodding. “I hear you.” He turned, heading back toward his car. He stopped though, looking back at Peter. “Stiles is lucky he has you.”

Peter’s eyelid spasmed hard. “Oh my God, Deaton, get the fuck out of here! I don’t want your opinions!” He tore open the door and went inside, growling all the way up the stairs before he managed to calm himself. He didn’t want to take his anger in there where Stiles was trying to heal. When he opened the door, he was surprised to see that Stiles was awake, propped up on the pillows.

Stiles gave him a weak smile. “Hey.”

“Hey, you,” Peter said, moving over to the bed and sliding onto it. “How do you feel?” he asked, taking the back of Stiles’s head and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“If I were to rate my pain 1-10, probably a 6,” Stiles said, and when Peter tried to lay his hand on his chest above his wounds, Stiles caught his hand. “You know, you get pale when you do your pain taking thing too much.” He sighed softly. “You’re white as a ghost.”

Curling his fingers around Stiles’s hand, he nodded. “Melissa left something for you to take. But you need to eat with it.”

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, and his stomach let out a vicious growl of interest. He slowly closed his eyes and sighed, and he probably would have blushed if he weren’t exhausted. “So like, if I wanted you to spoon feed me soup…?”

“We have chicken noodle, broccoli and cheese, and tomato,” Peter said, smiling.

“Gonna have to go with classic chicken noodle,” Stiles said on a sigh, before he opened his eyes. “Unless you have Goldfish crackers.”

Peter made a _psh_ sound. “Of course I have Goldfish crackers. What do you take me for?”

Stiles smiled, showing teeth. “Tomato please, garçon.” 

Peter had to kiss him, before he moved off the bed. “Be right back.” It was easy to make tomato soup on the fly when it came out of a can, but he of course added seasonings. He grabbed a Sprite, the bag of Goldfish crackers and a chocolate pudding cup to go with the soup. He wasn’t really a pudding person, but having it around was a good way to keep Stiles out of his gelato. 

When he pushed his way into the bedroom, Stiles was already making grabby hands at the food. Peter snorted. “What happened to me spoon feeding you?” He asked as he knee walked onto the bed and set the dinner tray down on Stiles’s lap.

“I don’t really want you give you an opportunity to make this a Misery situation,” Stiles said, before he held out his hand, opening and closing.

Peter sighed and grabbed the pill bottle, opening it up and dropping one pill into Stiles’s palm. “You’re far too young to know about that book,” he said as Stiles took the pill and chugged half the bottle of Sprite like he was dying.

“It’s a book too?” Stiles asked, wiping his lips.

Peter lifted a brow.

Stiles stared at him, blank-faced.

Peter lifted his other brow.

Stiles’s lips twitched, before he snickered.

Peter rolled his eyes to high heaven.

“You’re right, y’know,” Stiles said after he’d devoured the soup and most of the crackers and was halfway through the pudding cup.

“Well, I’m always right, so you’re going to have to be more specific,” Peter murmured with a chuckle.

Stiles didn’t look up from his pudding. “I really am terrified of being useless.”

Shit. Peter swallowed and flicked his eyes around. “I guess you heard that then.”

“You can’t really control the volume of your voice when you’re angry.” Before Peter could figure out if he was supposed to apologize or justify himself, Stiles continued, “You’re right when you say that Deaton sends me--sends all of us--into situations we can’t be prepared for. The thing is though…” He looked and gave Peter half a smile. “He doesn’t have anyone else.”

Peter’s lips twitched.

Stiles set his spoon in his empty pudding cup. “No werewolf or banshee would have been accepted into the fey mound as an ambassador. No normal human either. I was the only choice.” He handed over the empty cup, and Peter took it to drop it in the trash bin, before he moved in to cuddle Stiles when he opened his arms.

Peter pressed his face into Stiles’s neck, breathing in his scent and feeling himself start to tremble a little, all the tension in his shoulders slipping through his fingers like sand. “I was scared,” he murmured, trying to be careful of Stiles chest even though he wanted to hold him so tight he was melded with him forever. “I was so scared you were dead.”

“I was scared too,” Stiles said, carding his fingers through Peter’s hair as he kissed his forehead. “I thought… I did everything Deaton told me to do. I didn’t give them my real name. I didn’t eat any of their food. I never told a lie. But nobody could have known that they wanted my… power.”

“If we had just taken more time to figure out their intentions--” Peter tried to insist.

“Then people would have died. We had to act fast.”

Peter frowned because he didn’t have a good counter to that.

“It isn’t all Deaton’s fault. I knew that I was going in half-blind. But I also know that I’m a damn adult and I can make my own decisions.”

Peter stiffened again, and he tried to pull away, feeling scolded, but Stiles held onto him. Sure, he could break the hold, but he wasn’t about to move if stiles wanted him there.

“Deaton has done a lot of shady shit since I was sixteen, but he did his best with this one. He only had a day to read all his books, the ones in languages not even Lydia knows. Time wasn’t on our side, and we did the best with what he had.” He shifted, looking down at Peter. “It was his idea to bury a hex bag at the poles of the mound to keep it in one spot and allow one person I picked in just in case.”

It took a second, but Peter opened his eyes as he realized what Stiles said. He looked up at him. “You picked me?” he asked, and Stiles nodded. “Not Scott or Derek? Why?”

Stiles snorted. “Because you get shit done.”

Peter laughed into Stiles’s neck. “Yeah, I do.” He looked up again when Stiles tipped his chin up. 

“Apologize to Deaton, please?” Stiles asked, looking cute and sweet and _ugh_.

Turning his face into a pillow, Peter’s words came muffled. “Don’t wanna.”

“I know. But now you have plenty of ammunition saved up for when he actually does deserve it.” 

Peter heaved a sigh and looked at Stiles. “Do I have to right now?” he asked.

Stiles snorted, shaking his head. “Nah. Right now I demand cuddles and maybe some of that fancy Italian ice cream of yours later.”

“Okay, well, cuddles I can provide. We’ll set up negotiations for my gelato later.” Peter pressed a kiss under Stiles’s chin, smiling as he laughed. 

They settled into silence, and Peter was pleased that Stiles was smelling content and sleepy. They both dosed on and off for about an hour, but then Stiles’s scent went a bit sour in Peter’s nostrils, and he opened his eyes to look up at him.

Stiles was staring up at the ceiling, brow pinched together. “They were trying to make something,” he said, slowly like he was recalling memories from a dream. “I don’t know what. They didn’t tell me. They just kept saying it would be amazing when it came together, that they’d finally found the right person. Half the stuff they were saying definitely wasn’t English. I kept asking why they were doing what they were, and they--they laughed at me. They said I had no idea what I was and if I wasn’t going to put it to good use… they were.” He swallowed a couple times then abruptly tried to sit up.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Peter asked, holding onto his shoulders and pressing him back against the bed. 

“I have to talk to Deaton, to Scott and Derek. They need to know that the fey are planning something. They need to be stopped before they take somebody else.” He whimpered as his stomach and chest curled, fighting Peter’s hands. 

“Let me tell them,” Peter said, holding him down and rubbing his thumbs into the hollows of his collarbones. “Let me call them. They’ve probably already figured out that something isn’t right. Derek and Scott are smart enough to…” He flicked his eyes to the side, before he shrugged. “They have Lydia.”

Stiles laughed, before he winced and held his chest.

“You said the fey mound can’t move, so it’s not like they’re going to disappear on us. We have time now, because we’re not sending anyone else in there blind.” Stiles started to relax under his hands, nodding slowly. “You said I can go in there when I want to. And if I have to, I’ll do that.” He shrugged. “I get shit done, remember?”

Stiles hummed, before he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, when you feel like it.”

Peter couldn’t help his offended _pff_ sound, before he descended on Stiles and started to smooch his face all over until he was a mess of giggles. 

A bit later, Peter made two calls. The first was to Derek, relaying everything Stiles had told him, and he fought not to snicker as he heard Scott’s panicked yelling in the background and Allison trying to calm him down. God, those two were gross.

The second call was to Deaton, and he didn’t bother beating around the bush because Stiles was within range to jab him in the kidney. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he said, though it was like swallowing lava. “I know it wasn’t _entirely_ your fault.”

Jab.

“Thank you, Peter,” Deaton said, and there wasn’t any obvious smugness there. “Are you near Stiles?”

“Yeah.” Peter looked over at Stiles, who lifted his brows.

“Can you put me on speaker, please?”

Peter slid his finger across the face of his phone and hit the speaker button. “Caller, you are on the air,” he said, and Stiles snickered.

“Stiles,” Deaton said, and his voice had a soft edge to it. “I’m sorry all this happened to you. I’m going to do my best so that we’ll all be better prepared for whatever comes next.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said, smiling.

“Also, when you are healed, I want you to start coming by the clinic weekly. I think it’s long past time we start your emissary training.”

Stiles grinned wide, and Peter felt his heart ache at the sight. “Cool. Awesome. Okay, Deaton. Thanks.”

When Deaton hung up, Peter lifted the phone and pressed the top of it to his lips, smiling at Stiles as Stiles giggled madly with his hands over his face. “Look at you, Mr Emissary-In-Training. I’d say you’ve got your big boy pants on, but you don’t have anything on.” He plopped his phone onto the bedside table and laughed as Stiles lifted the sheet to view his nakedness.

“Oh, so I don’t,” Stiles said, before he huffed a laugh. He reached for Peter, and Peter moved into his arms with a pleased sigh. He scratched his nails through fingers hair and along his neck, and Peter shivered a little.

“Um,” Stiles started a bit later, before he cleared his throat. “I was thinking.”

Peter lifted head, about to tease Stiles, but the slightly scared expression on his face sobered Peter right up. “What about?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow. 

“My next heat is in a month,” he said, eyes going all round and doe soft. “I think we should bond.”

Peter, figuring that screaming or swinging Stiles round and round was not a logical reaction, just said, “Oh.”

“It’s not because you saved me,” Stiles said, touching Peter’s face. “I mean, it is, but not because of the fey mound. You saved me from a lot of things. Loneliness, depression. And while you kind of are my knight in shining armor, you’ve let me save you from things too.”

Peter smiled, leaning in and giving Stiles a soft kiss. “Yeah, you saved me from my greatest enemy: myself.”

Stiles sighed into his mouth. “Do you accept my proposal to be my mate?”

“I do, even though we’re kind of doing things backwards. But I do.” 

“Puh- _lease,_ ” Stiles said, pulling Peter in by his head. “When have we ever done things the right way?”

Peter grinned and kissed Stiles stupid. The things they did weren’t about right or wrong, just them, and they did things the only way they knew how.

“So,” Stiles said, drawing back once his face was flushed, his lips swollen and his eyes glossy. “About that gelato?”

Peter pulled his lips into a line. Negotiation time. “You can have the coconut almond vanilla.”

Stiles’s nose scrunched up. “Ew. There’s a reason neither of us have eaten that one yet. No, I want the blood orange.”

“Hell no, the blood orange is mine.”

“Damn, okay, how about…”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr.](http://thesushiowl.tumblr.com/post/149211040506/commission-faq)


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